Today we traveled just a few miles from our small lake-country community, out to the surrounding countryside—the rivers, farms, and woodlands which say “Wisconsin”. Pictured above is the Rock River, once a part of the Sauk Indians’ Wisconsin and Illinois territory embedded in history by the leadership of Black Hawk. From the photo you can see that we’ve had plenty of rain; that white thing apparently floating beyond the high grass slightly above center is a picnic bench.

Joe (flanked by Dylan) cast a line in this river park, which is simply a spur off a county road—one of countless natural retreats for travelers in our state.

When Dylan wasn’t fishing, he strolled with me along the water’s edge. Suddenly, he decided to go wading—something he has never done before. I was amazed, because it’s always a struggle to get Dylan into the bathtub. But then, haven’t little boys always preferred wading in rivers to getting lathered up in a tub? So it’s no wonder that Dylan went in up to his belly, which isn’t all that high off the ground. Perhaps the presence of hundreds of teensy tadpoles darting in the water provided a lure to adventure, even when it meant my corgi had to get wet.

From the river site Joe, Dylan, and I meandered along country lanes west of the Kettle Moraine State Forest where we lived for 21 years—the longest I have ever lived in any one place for my entire life. We visited a friend on a farm near Fort Atkinson (more historic Sauk country), and Dylan ran free of his leash—something he hasn’t done since we moved nearly 5 years ago, from our wild northern acres. On that farm Joe and I stroked horses noses and fondled a small herd of mini-Nubian goats—all of whom Dylan approached with friendly enthusiasm. (Dylan LOVES all living creatures, barring dogs. He wants to KILL dogs!)

Laden with rhubarb and some of the best fresh spinach we’ve ever had, we returned home via a favorite country ice-cream shop—“Pickets” possibly named after a 1990s TV series, PICKET FENCES, hypothetically set in Rome, Wisconsin.*

The actual village of Rome (on the Bark River) seems like something Time forgot, except for the occasional local person walking around with a cell phone.

As you readers can probably gather, our octogenarian decade is at this moment an extremely pleasant time. We live surrounded by pleasant places, and Home is the most pleasant of all. Currently we have another family living with us—not inside our 4 room condo, but just outside and aboveour living room/patio door.

The nest contains 5 baby barn swallows. A week ago we saw nothing but mouths lining the edge of the nest; and when they were open the mouths looked like mini-Muppets. Now the babies are leaning out of the nest, and they are hilarious. The middle bird is huge compared to his or her “sibs”, and also the most aggressive. Some have learned to back over the edge to do their bird jobs; consequently we’ll soon have a piece of work to clean-up.

What we are seeing is Entitlement in action; I call it “OCCUPY NASHOTAH”. For several days the parents have been zooming and fluttering around between feedings. It seems that Mom and Dad realize it’s time for their nestlings to get out on their own and DO THEIR OWN WORK! I hope to be out there when it happens! 🙂

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Pleasant places, pleasant times. Every single day, I thank our Lord for them. I’ve lived long enough (and through enough!) to know that “pleasant” can change in an instant—to “crisis”, “emergency”, and even “tragedy”.

Because I know and trust the Lord Jesus Christ who died to save us from our sin and rose to give us Eternal Life, and because I know that I’m in His care forever, I have no fear of the future. As I rest in Him, He will provide the Grace to bear whatever lies ahead! Meanwhile I’m thankful beyond expression, for God’s gift of Life—and for the pleasant places and pleasant times He’s given Joe and me today!

*Never having watched PICKET FENCES, I’m not sure of the naming of the country store—or whether or not it was featured in the series. Perhaps the store was always “Pickets”, and the show was named after it. Who knows? Further GOOGLE research may shed light. 🙂

“The tale that River told was so strange, so mysterious, that all the listening in the world did not explain all that was in it. Even River, who seemed to be doing just as he liked, was not entirely his own master . . . . something that the sea had said had got into his spirit.” Faye Inchfawn, WHO GOES TO THE WOOD

Ever since I can remember, I’ve lived near or on water. I’m passionate about lakes of all sizes, and ponds. But perhaps I love rivers most of all! There is something about water, especially moving water!

Much of my growing up was done on a lake in the summer, and in a small town for the rest of the year. On the edge of our town property, there was a river—actually a quiet stream—where I spent a lot of time exploring its icy path in winter (not the smartest thing to do on a river!) and catching tadpoles in the late spring.

My paternal grandparents lived on a river too—on a high bluff overlooking Wisconsin’s gorgeous Black River. There were four guest bedrooms upstairs in my grandparents’ home. When my family visited alone, with no cousins present, I got to choose my bedroom for the duration of our stay. I always chose the one overlooking the river.

The river pictured above, where you see my husband fishing, is the Big Elk which flows into a bay by our up-north home. I have spent many drowsy afternoons in a canoe or my pedal boat on the Big Elk—with a book and a thermos of iced tea. I would bank on a sandbar upriver, where no homes could be seen, and swim off the sand bar. Sometimes I would take a sandwich and cookies—also not a good idea, on a river where black bears abound on the wooded banks.

Now we live in a condo in an area of farms, quaint villages, and newer subdivisions. There’s a lot of water in our neighborhood. Rivers flow into lakes, and between the lakes, forming a network of water and a very special culture—known as “Lake Country”.

Small communities of old Victorian style homes, Cape Cods with gables, 1920s bungalows, and cozy cabins have lakes and rivers at their doorstep. Any given lake or river may be banked by circa 1880s mansions, with small summer homes close by. Good old boys’ bait shops with names like “Mike’s Musky” share a village block with establishments for high end dining. Horse farms sprawl across the Lake Country—sharing the turf with corn, black Angus, and Herefords. There are even a few dairy herds left in this moist and fertile bit of Wisconsin.

In the midst of our condo buildings there is a small pond surrounded by grass, shade trees, some gardens, and benches where people can rest. With a heart full of lake and river years, I now love sitting beside the pond and watching the water. Cattails grow along the edges, peepers trill and sing on spring afternoons and evenings, and occasionally I see a pair of mallards in the pond.

In the center of the pond, a fountain gushes up and out—ruffling the water, reminding me of rivers of rushing water. I sit here and reflect on the goodness of life. I think of my large and loving family, and my heart stirs like the ruffles in the pond. Currently Joe and I have 15 great-grandchildren, and another baby is due next autumn. Rivers of blessing!

We have yet to meet one of the great-grandchildren—a little boy born last autumn. He lives in another state, and we hope to meet him soon. This little fellow has an unusual name: “River”!

Note: The big water on the header of this page is the greatest inland lake in the world, a lake which has totally captured my heart and imagination: Lake Superior. The boy wading in Lake Superior is far more precious than the lake: our grandson, Joelly. 🙂

For weeks our home has been surrounded by silence—the silence of deep winter. Only the whoosh of wind outside our windows, the whisper of sleet and snow, and the strident caw of hungry crows have broken the lifeless hush which set in around late November and continued through the darkest December days—into the new year.

But suddenly, last week, the silence broke. Outside our bedroom window, we have an ornamental tree which has graced us with pink blossoms in spring, lush verdure and families of robins in summer, and lovely orange berries in fall and winter.

Last week, the ornamental tree graced us with a flock of chickadees feasting on the berries, filling the gap of winter with their happy commotion of “chick-a-dee-dee-dee”.

I weep for joy when the birds and their songs come back. Each day I go into semi-raptures over the cardinals in our front yard tree. In just a matter of weeks, we will be “cheer-cheer-cheered” when the cardinals burst into territorial proclamations.

In about five weeks we will be able to make the hour trip south to Whitewater, Wisconsin, where we have traditionally seen the first returning redwings of the season. Their “oka-reeeee” sends me into a state I cannot even begin to describe.

About the same time, the skies will fill with returning Canadas. I will gaze upward, and wonder which ones are headed for our beloved northern home, to nest and raise their goslings along the Big Elk River around the bend from us.

And chortling robins. And chattering sparrows. And the joyous ringing of sand hill cranes overhead, sounding like hollow bamboo wind chimes on a gusty spring day.

Grace in the trees. Grace in the skies! Great is Thy faithfulness, O Lord!

A beloved treasure is our Big Elk River, just around the bend from the bay at our northern Wisconsin home. Soon the ice will go out, and we’ll be heading north to savor the sights and sounds upriver.

In canoeing weather we like to go up-river at least once a week, to see the changes in flora and fauna. We watch families of ducks and geese grow from new-in-the-water to teen-ager. We see new fawns in season, and on a few occasions we’ve surprised otters sunning on branches over the water. I delight in the progression of wild flowers, from angelica to Joe pye-weed to tickseed sunflower and purple aster with many beauties in between—including sky blue forget-me-nots which bloom for weeks on sunny banks and mossy logs.

Ahhhh, River! When we first moved up north I often took my paddle boat, a thermos of iced tea, and a book—and hung out on a sand bar up-river for a few hours all by myself. Then my love, Joe, got spooked about all the bears running around, and put the kaboosh on that.

This illustration of our river is not a painting, but rather a photo—computer enhanced. I have also achieved a similar effect with watercolor applied to Japanese masa paper, with its beautiful fractured sizing.

A Poet’s Place

A poet’s place

where every aspen branch

drips metaphors like Dali’s clocks,

alliteration echoes angelica

artemisia anemone . . .

with stillness-saturated solitude

against the onomatopoeic thrum

of frogs.

A poet’s place

of imagery in river-clad

forget-me-nots, where figures of speech

slide otterwise from scruffy banks

of sandy streams on drowsy days,

and symbols pierce the lunar-nugget nights

in cadence with a Milky Way

of dreams.

Margaret Longenecker Been—All Rights Reserved

Published in A TIME UNDER HEAVEN—seasonal reflections and poems, by Margaret Longenecker Been

Finally it’s summer! Gone are those 40 degree mornings, and raw days which threatened to be all we would get this year. We are having beautiful days, in the 80s. Soporific days of fishing, reading, sleeping, and lollygoggling about on the screen porch. Our Denver grandsons, Nathaniel and Joel, arrived yesterday. When they are here, they bring the essence of summer. Now the weather is cooperating.

We went upriver today, and Joe landed the above-pictured northern. We’ll have our fish fry at home tonight. At this moment, the boys are building a game. Wherever they go, they have fun together–creating, entertaining themselves (and whomever is around them), and enjoying whatever the moment brings.

Last night I went to sleep to the delightful music of the guys talking and laughing. We all go to bed around 9:30 when the boys are here, but we tell them they can read and/or play in their room until a time individually arbitrated by however early we plan to get up the next day. I normally give them a good 45-60 minutes of extra relaxing playtime at night, so I can savor going to sleep to the heavenly sound of their voices.

Tomorrow we plan to go to our county fair, just a few minutes down the road. We’ll start with breakfast at the fair, and do as much as we want–remembering to take refreshing breaks whenever needed. Then we’ll top the day with pizza at our favorite lakeside restaurant. Of course, we end every day with that old-fashioned summer necessity: ice cream!

Our home sits on an incline, overlooking the bay and lake. Along the shore is a marsh which skirts our front (lake side) yard, and covers most of the eastern side yard–under the driveway and out to the road.

Now, as every year in May, our marshland is covered with butter–that glorious butter of blooming marsh marigolds, sometimes called cowslips.

Marsh marigolds, along with spring beauties which simultaneously adorn the upland into our woods, are the first of our flower friends to return. Like those friends at our bird feeders, how I love the wild friends that make up “God’s Garden.”

Dandelions are among my favorites; they’re starting to spread their own butter in the grassy areas. How sad to mow the dandelions before they even have a chance to seed. I recall the butter we smeared on our noses as children, and the feathery seedlings we blew to the wind when the blooming had finished. (Child at heart that I am, I still smear and blow!)

The progression of wild flowers goes quickly in the far north, and we don’t want to miss a minute of it. Soon daisies and orange hawkweed will appear, and those precious little bunchberries down by the sunny shore.

The forget-me-nots sometimes begin in late June, and I’ve found isolated pockets of them way into September. Not only do they grow along sunny and shady shores, but they pop out of grassy logs midstream–little floating gardens of forget-me-nots. I think these tiny gems radiate the most heavenly blue outside of heaven itself!

By mid-July we realize that life on earth is a poignant, fleeting thing and time is moving too fast. Suddenly goldenrod springs up, seemingly out of nowhere. And then the asters–purple and white–foretelling autumn and the demise of another year.

Flower friends! Welcomed every spring and summer, and mourned when they leave! We’ll enjoy them while they last!

The green face of spring (pictured above) is three weeks away, along with the time of bursting buds and wildflowers rejoicing in the meadows and woods.

Now we’re enjoying the tawny face of spring. Tentative green shots appear in areas, but we are still in the stage of post-winter brown. I love each face of spring as it comes, and have no desire to hurry any of it along.

The redwings are claiming their territories in the swamp surrounding our home. The Canadas have paired off, and are nesting. We hope they’ve planned to hatch their goslings on high ground.

Sometimes the Canadas lay their eggs on hummocks of grass in the river, before the torrential downpours which we’re apt to get in May. We’ve seen nature’s little tragedies in past years–eggs and nests washed out due to low ground and high water.

You will not catch me cleaning house or preparing elaborate meals during these first few warm days of spring. Now it’s time to live outdoors as much as possible.

You will catch me strolling up the hill to the woods to view the landscape from on high, sitting on our swing by the side of the bay, and soaking up sun (and sun tea) on our front deck which is sheltered from the north wind.

Today I bugged out early to attend my first rummage sale of the season. No treasures were found, but I came home with my soul abounding in the mellow-ness of it all: driving down country roads, chatting with country people, and praising God for the faces of spring.